


My Eyes Were Set On Something Else

by solversonlou



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:57:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solversonlou/pseuds/solversonlou
Summary: “We’ve become far too involved in our work, Arnold,” Ford says as he brings the alcohol to his partner, placing the glasses and bottle on the desk, next to Arnold’s blueprints. He says ‘we’, but Arnold can tell from his tone that he means ‘you’, and it leaves him with a feeling of discomfort. “I do miss our drinking evenings.”
A snippet from Robert and Arnold's early years.





	

It’s late when Ford finds him in the basement, going over designs and plans for the newer models they’d been working on together. They’d disagreed about something earlier in the day, Ford having been exasperated by Arnold’s sudden need to control every little aspect of the project. It’d ended with Ford storming out and Arnold muttering under his breath.

Hours have passed since then, and Ford had hoped perhaps Arnold had stewed long enough to be calm again. Ford approaches the door to their shared work space cautiously, pressing his fingertips to the frame of it, and simply observes Arnold in action for a few moments.

“I know you’re there, Robert,” Arnold says after a while, voice cutting through the silence. He remains fixated on the blueprints before him. “You really must invest in quieter shoes if you want to sneak around this place, the floor’s pure concrete.”

Ford isn’t deterred by Arnold’s words. He can tell by the tone of his voice that he isn’t agitated, just distracted by his work, as always. Moving away from the door, he walks towards his partner, hands in the pockets of his neat, black slacks. “I wasn’t trying to be inconspicuous, Arnold. I was just observing before I engaged, a technique you must be acutely aware of by now.”

“Of course,” Arnold lifts his head when Ford stops behind him, placing the pencil in his hand on the table before him. Turning in his chair, he finally looks up his partner, over the brim of the glasses that balance on the edge of his nose. “If you’ve come here to berate me for working late, I don’t want to hear it.”

There’s a pause then, Ford considering his options of what to say. He could let the argument from earlier arise again, or he could go through with his original plan before he walked through the door.

He decides on the latter, exhaling through his nose and rising slightly on the balls of his feet. “I came here to ask if you fancied a drink, actually. If you’re going to be working at these hours, you might as well do it with some bourbon assistance.”

Arnold’s mouth presses into a straight line, brow furrowing as his shoulders sink from their tense position. He’d been expecting another fight, but Ford’s invitation had surprised him. He considers it for a second, watches as Ford’s lips tug up into a small smile. “Alright, but you know that I prefer wine.”

Ford sighs, hands sliding out of his pockets as he makes his way towards a large, dark oak cabinet in the corner of their office. “Yes, I know, Arnold. Which is why I made sure to stock this with your favourite.”

Arnold doesn’t know what to say to that. He sits back in his chair, observes Ford wordlessly as the Englishman rummages through the drinks cabinet, collecting glasses and a familiar bottle of red. He wasn’t lying, it was Arnold’s favourite.

“We’ve become far too involved in our work, Arnold,” Ford says as he brings the alcohol to his partner, placing the glasses and bottle on the desk, next to Arnold’s blueprints. He says ‘we’, but Arnold can tell from his tone that he means ‘you’, and it leaves him with a feeling of discomfort. “I do miss our drinking evenings.”

“I don’t miss the hangovers,” Arnold says as Ford pours them each out a glass.

The corners of Ford’s eyes crease at Arnold’s little snip of a joke, smiling that upper-class, English smile of his. Arnold had never been able to tell if he found it charming or smarmy, or maybe a bit of both.

He takes the glass that Ford hands him, their knuckles bumping together. Arnold doesn’t notice that Ford does it deliberately, and Ford makes a note of it. (Observance skills can’t be all that up to scratch then.)

“I understand your concerns, Robert,” Arnold says, raising the glass under his nose and swirling it gently. He looks up at Ford, who perches himself on the desk, legs crossed at the ankle, almost elegantly. Arnold takes a rather large swig of his wine, swallows it down. “But I’m sure we can manage. We’re doing great things here.”

Ford purses his lips, eyes fixed on Arnold, analysing. He knows that when Arnold says 'we’, he mostly means 'me’.

“Yes, I’m very much aware of our progress,” Ford takes a sip of his drink, elbow perched on his knee. He’d rolled his sleeves up earlier, after his little argument with Arnold, frustrated and fidgety. It was rare that he wasn’t composed and put together. Arnold often contributed to that rarity. “It’s simply nice to connect again, is it not? Humans are social creatures, after all. Unlike our prototypes.”

Arnold laughs, though it’s more of a scoff. He nurses his drink for a moment before taking another sip, doesn’t pay attention to the quirk of an eyebrow Ford gives him. He meets Ford’s eye again, smiles from behind his glass. “Depends on how interesting the company is.”

“Are you calling me dull, Arnold?” The playful smile that graces Ford’s features is a genuine one, and Arnold finds himself drawn in by it. Ford always did have an air of charm surrounding him.

Arnold laughs again, more heartily this time, taking the last sip of his wine, his tense shoulders releasing against the back of his chair.

Ford notices the tensity in Arnold’s posture, has done in the past few months. He’d been overworking himself. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up becoming obsessed with their work. He needed a distraction. Ford dared say he was concerned about him.

“Refill?” Ford offers, placing his own glass down on the desk. He watches Arnold’s reluctant response, a nod and an extending of his glass. Ford picks up the bottle and leans over, pours Arnold out another drink.

The more Arnold drinks, the more relaxed he becomes and the conversation turns from a discussion about work, to reminiscing about their earlier days, back before they’d conceived the idea of the park between them.

“You never pursued her,” Arnold says, a good hour and a half after Ford had walked through the door. “She was gorgeous, I would have probably asked her out if I hadn’t thought you were interested.”

Robert can’t exactly recall how many glasses he’s had, but he can recall who Arnold is talking about. A redhead, Margaret. They’d met at University. He knows why he never pursued her, why he never took the beautiful girl up on her offer of companionship and love.

“Perhaps my eyes were set on something else,” Ford says quietly, looking into his near empty wine glass. The bottle is almost gone, and the flush in his cheek is all indication that he wont need more tonight. He lifts his gaze, meeting Arnold’s eye.

Neither of them say anything, Arnold’s fingers flexing around his empty glass as his smile fades, and he’s just holding Ford’s gaze. He shifts in his seat, places his glass on the desk. “Yes, you always were more invested in your work. You’re worse than me at times.”

Robert looks down, forcing a smile at his shoes. A part of him aches a little, and he can’t tell if it’s through tiredness or due to Arnold’s misinterpretation of his words. Perhaps it’s both, he thinks, as he lifts the back of his hand to his mouth to cover his yawn.

“I think perhaps the wine has gone to my head,” Ford says, pressing back onto the heels of his hands as he pushes himself up and off of the desk. His feet hit the floor a little off kilter, and Arnold’s hand reaches out to steady him, warm, thick fingers wrapping around his bare forearm.

Robert meets Arnold’s eye again, over the rim of Arnold’s glasses. His hand is still on Robert’s arm, as Robert’s other arm lifts, fingers timidly moving towards Arnold’s glasses, lifting them up to the bridge of his nose, wordlessly.

Even in his slightly tipsy state, Arnold can see Ford’s face clearer now, can map out the slight lines and the edges. He’s always been handsome, younger than Arnold, boyish good looks remaining with him over the years. He looks closer to his late twenties than the mid thirties that he is, and Arnold finds himself utterly distracted by it, the blue of his eyes and the curve of his lips.

Robert doesn’t process the kiss at first. He’s aware, of the faint press of lips against his own, but he doesn’t respond to it, not until it takes a moment to sink in. When it does sink in, Ford presses back against the touch, lips slotting into the seam of Arnold’s mouth, chin tilting up to meet the soft scratch of the beard that adorns Arnold’s face.

Ford’s fingers find themselves at Arnold’s cheeks, drawing him in as he kisses him back like he’s starving for it, as if it’d been all he’d wanted to do for the past eight years and more.

Arnold’s broad palms move to the narrow angle of Ford’s waist. He’s not exactly slight, but he’s not as broad or tall as Arnold, who guides him up against the edge of the desk, their hips aligned, his teeth grazing across the Englishman’s bottom lip.

Robert’s fingers press into the textured hair at the nape of Arnold’s neck, his left hand gripping onto Arnold’s bicep. He pulls his lips away from Arnold’s to breathe for a second, and Arnold’s nose bumps against his own, searching for the touch again.

“Robert,” his voice is low, deep in a way that sends a flush of blood through Ford’s veins. His head spins at the sound of it, a whimper leaving him when Arnold shifts his hips against his. “How should we proceed?”

Always so analytical, even when he’s got Ford pressed to a desk and aching in his trousers.

Robert rolls his hips forward, revels in the hitch of Arnold’s breath when the hard outlines of their cocks slide together beneath layers of fabric.

“Is that an in-depth enough answer?” Ford says, their foreheads pressing, a loose strand of his usually neat hair falling between them.

Shaking his head, Arnold responds. “No, I think that’s enough.”

Their mouths meet again, deeper, Arnold’s hands sliding down the small of Robert’s back and cupping around the curve of his behind, hips rolling together.

Robert’s hands aren’t sure of what to do, exploring Arnold’s body like a blind man’s against a wall. All he can taste is the wine on Arnold’s tongue and all he can feel is heat, prickling his skin, the friction between them as they pick up a pace between their hips.

Robert would like more than this, but he figures it’s impossible tonight, not when they’re both too far gone. He’ll settle for this, welcomes it. He welcomes the way Arnold breaks apart from his lips to kiss his throat, beard running against the pale expanse of his neck, no doubt leaving a rash that’ll be apparent in the morning, a reminder of their encounter.

Arnold’s mouth presses against Robert’s Adam’s apple, his fingers kneading into his slacks like a cat with a pillow, and Robert hips just continue rolling in circles, building up friction.

It isn’t long before Arnold is feeling a tightness in his abdomen and he’s moving his hips in a quickened pace, rutting up against Robert who digs his blunt nails into the nape of Arnold’s neck, a moan slipping by his lips.

Arnold’s saying something, although Robert can’t figure out what it is, only that it’s getting more urgent by the second, and soon enough, Robert knows why. The short, few grunts that leave Arnold is an indication, hips jerking against Robert’s as he comes, hard, beneath layers of fabric.

“You’ll ruin your slacks, Arnold,” Ford says, a little too late. He only says it because he knows he’s close too, and even in his state he doesn’t want to soil a perfectly good pair of trousers.

Arnold understands the implication, even whilst he’s still in the effects of his orgasm. In one, swift movement, he’s unbuttoning Robert’s trousers and slipping his hard cock through the slit of his boxers, his calloused, heated fingers wrapping around the girth of it.

Robert gasps into Arnold’s mouth again, hips rocking as Arnold’s fingers tug once, twice, and then he’s coming, in thick ropes across the front of Arnold’s slacks.

Pressed together, the two of them catch their breaths, eyes screwed shut, mouths breaking apart.

Arnold’s forehead falls against Robert’s shoulder, his breath ragged as he recovers.

Robert’s come slowly starts to cool against his fingers which Arnold wipes against his own leg.

When they finally break away from each other, Robert braces himself against the desk, doesn’t notice that they’d knocked the empty bottle of wine over, or that some of Arnold’s papers had scattered to the ground.

They tidy themselves away, as much as they can, and Robert doesn’t say anything about the fact that Arnold’s probably going to have to throw his trousers and underwear out now.

Instead, he rolls his sleeves down over his wrists, buttoning them neatly.

“Did you plan for this to happen?” Arnold inquires, taking a seat again, legs a little weak from their encounter.

Robert pauses, lips pursing. “I’d considered it. I hadn’t actually thought it could occur.”

They stay like that for a while, Robert adjusting himself and Arnold going over it in his head, watching Robert’s movements.

“Where do we go from here?” Arnold says, head tilted slightly. Robert looks at him, hands smoothing back his disheveled hair.

“Well, I was planning on going to sleep,” Robert says, rather matter-of-factly. His voice shifts to a softer tone, inviting. “Alone… unless you wish to join me?”

“My bedroom is further than yours,” Arnold reasons, rising to his feet, still a little tipsy, still a little slack from his orgasm. “And I’m exhausted.”

“Careful, Arnold,” Robert says, the hint of a smile on his lips as he gestures with a wave of his hand for Arnold to follow him. “Actually going to sleep and not working constantly? Some may accuse you of being human.”

“I am human,” Arnold frowns, following behind Robert. “I think I displayed that with what we just did in there.”

Robert chuckles heartily as they make their way through the basement halls, alongside the rooms where their prototypes sat, expressionless features staring at them from behind glass doors. “That you did, Arnold. I don’t think we could programme something as authentic as that, not for another five or six years, at least…”

“I give it three,” Arnold says as they come to Robert’s bedroom door, and Robert pulls out a key card, swipes it in. “Four tops.”

**Author's Note:**

> I imagined this as set before Arnold married and had Charlie. Perhaps a year or two? I'm not entirely sure on the timeline, tbh. Anyways, I live for the idea of Robert having been in love with Arnold and my heart aches for them... also why was young Robert such a twink? The world may never know.


End file.
